


Hub and Spokes

by girlguidejones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlguidejones/pseuds/girlguidejones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam have put as much road between themselves and Roy LeGrange as they can. Dean is carrying around someone else's heart, Sam is still reeling from nearly losing his big brother on top of losing Jess, and Dad still hasn't checked in. A few weeks of nothing to worry about besides losing at ring-toss and eating too much cotton candy may be just what they need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hub and Spokes

Title: Hub and Spokes  
Author: girlguidejones  
Artist: cybel  
Art Masterpost: [on LJ](http://cybel.livejournal.com/84423.html) and also [at DW](http://cybel.dreamwidth.org/86750.html)  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Rating: NC17  
Word count: 5900 words  
Beta thanks: The fabulous [poisontaster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster), who is the best ficwife ever.  
Author's notes: Written for the amazing [2012_spn_reversebang](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/2012_spn_reversebang) challenge. I stayed up until 3AM to be the first to claim this art, and it's easy to see why. [cybel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cybel/pseuds/cybel) is talented beyond measure, and I'm honored to be working with her. She's been utterly fabulous!

[](http://girlguidejones.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2152/13545)

[ ](http://girlguidejones.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2152/14484)

The sun beat down on Sam's shoulders, and he shifted, trying to find an angle that would get him in the shade of the old oak and still let him watch Dean at the same time. He wrinkled his nose as a tiny breeze swept by for a moment, then died. The heat and the Ohio humidity made the smell of ground-in grease waft up from Sam's t-shirt. Dean's gaming shack was strategically placed in the shade; moms wouldn't stand in line for games with their children for long in this heat without it. Sam's French-fry and lemonade stall, on the other hand, was out in the open; hungry people would risk sunburn, apparently, and probably buy more lemon shakes to quench their thirst by the time they finally got their turn at the counter.

The carnival boss was an evil genius, really. 

They'd both signed on for split days, working in the morning and closing down at night. They figured it was the best way to get a chance to interact with the day and the night crews, and no one would question them wandering the grounds late at night if it turned out there was a case here and scut work needed to be done.

"What'cha boys good at?" the boss had asked when they showed up holding the help wanted flyer from the local 7-Eleven. They'd stopped just to gas up, but the Athens Messenger headline glared up at them from the stack by the register. " **TRAVELING CARNIVAL SEES SECOND DEATH IN AS MANY MONTHS** " They still hadn't heard from Dad, and Dean—filled with guilt over the mess with Layla and Roy LeGrange—was itching to find the next hunt. Sam wasn't sure there was really a hunt here at all, but if they could land a temp job for a few weeks at least they'd make gas money.

"I can do anything that needs doing," Dean grinned, and Sam cringed, hoping they didn't get hired as carnival garbage men. "Hell of a shot, great at cards, good with my hands. I can do a little carpentry, and fix anything with an engine." The boss narrowed his eyes.

"Good at talking, mainly, seems to me," he said shrewdly as Dean shifted from one foot to the other, "and not much of it true, is my guess," he finished, looking pointedly at Sam as if for confirmation. Sam did his best to look innocent enough to make up for Dean's bullshit.

"Some of it is!" Dean said defensively.

"I'll bet," the boss (Hendershot, the plaque on the trailer had read), chuckled dryly. "Can you run a con?" Both Dean and Sam froze, looking at each other uncomfortably. "Relax, boys. Ain't no I-9s and background checks here. Just wanna know if pretty-boy here can call in the crows." Sam and Dean stared blankly.

"Uh…" Sam said, unhelpfully.

"For the games. You bat your eyes and get the pretty girls to drag their boyfriends over and lay down their dough," Hendershot explained.

"Oh, sure," Dean drawled, on familiar ground again. "Can barely keep the crows off, truth be told." Sam rolled his eyes. He hated when Dean tried (always failing miserably) to sound like the locals. Hendershot quirked a sardonic brow at Sam. He seemed pretty bullshit-proof.

"I don't care who wins or who loses. You can flirt with the pretty girls all damn day and give them all a prize for all I care, so long as house comes out ahead 70-30 at day's end and no one's the wiser. You get me, pretty boy?" he asked.

"Oh, I absolutely get you," Dean grinned. Great. Someone actually encouraging Dean's larceny was definitely not what they needed.

"You," Hendershot said, poking Sam in the chest. "What're you good at, Paul Bunyan?" Dean barked a laugh and Sam elbowed him.

"I, uh, I see you have an empty knife throwing booth," Sam pointed across the fairway where the darkened booth sat in shadow. It had one of those wheels, where a pretty girl in lots of sequins gets strapped in and spun while some guy fakes a bad Russian accent and throws knives at her. "I'm great with knives. Maybe I could get a chance there?" he asked hopefully, but the boss was already shaking his head.

"Nah. It's only closed for the day; Jack has the flu," he answered absently, rubbing his chin. "But I do think I have some knife work for you somewhere else," he said with a sly grin. 

Which is how Dean ended up flirting all day in the shade and Sam ended up smelling like a deep-fried lemon.

[ ](http://girlguidejones.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2152/13730)

"Here you go, buddy," Dean said, winking at the attractive mom balancing her toddler against the counter. "Nice and easy," which of course meant the kid immediately rocketed the ping-pong ball in an Olympic-style volleyball spike at the table of glass bowls. It ricocheted off and around the tent for a few bounces before landing on the ground. Sam narrowed his eyes, watching carefully as Dean bent over to retrieve it, clowning a little to make the boy giggle, but he couldn't pinpoint anything out of the ordinary.

Dean had the mom stand the boy up on the counter this time, which was _so_ against all the rules, but the growing crowd didn't seem to mind. The kid and his golden curls and happy grin had them all charmed. They "awwwwed" in approval as Dean helped get him balanced, mom's hands securely around his waist and Dean in place to catch him if need be. At this angle, the boy could practically drop it into one of the dishes just by opening his hand. But once again he flung the ball with all of his little-boy strength and it bounced away, a cheerful tune ringing out as each bounce against the rim one of the water-filled dishes made its own note.

Sam leaned closer, clutching a freshly made lemon shake-up as Dean once again scrambled around the floor of the tent after the errant ball, as the crowd's disappointed sighs began to build into cheers of encouragement for the kid's last throw. The commotion brought even more people to the booth—there were probably close to fifty people watching at this point. One of them jostled Sam against the wooden counter, and the corner of it poked into his ribcage as Dean made a clumsy production of chasing the ball, making the little boy—and the crowd—laugh. When he stood up this time and displayed the recovered ball with a flourish, Dean's wink was for Sam, and Sam knew he'd missed it. Damn, that was smooth.

Once mom had him situated, arms securely around him, and Dean right there, Dean reached out to place the last ping-pong ball in the little boy's hand.

"Okay, Nolan Ryan," Dean said, drawing laughs from the crowd, "how 'bout you try the change-up this time, huh buddy?" Dean poked his belly for good measure, and the little guy giggled happily. Applause and cheers swelled, but Sam's heart was already sinking as he saw the boy's elbow rise with a jerk in preparation for the same violent delivery as before, nearly clipping his mother in the face in the process.

Something happened though, and instead of flying haphazardly with its release, the ball dropped nearly straight down and landed with a wet _plunk!_ in one of the glass bowls. There was a stunned moment of collective silence, and then the crowd erupted as if the Reds had won the Series. Dean grabbed the mic for the big finish.

"And we have a WINNAH! Look at that folks, look at that! So easy a three-year-old can do it. C'mon fellas, step right up, step right up, three chances to win, getchyer girl a giant teddy bear, don't miss out!"

Dean passed the mic to another carnie; his first shift was over and Sam had been on his way to meet him for dinner when the little boy and his mom had stepped up. The crowd continued to cheer, some lining up for a turn with the new shill at the helm as others dispersed. Strangers offered the tiny boy high fives on their way past, which he gleefully returned as his mother, flushed with happiness for him, looked on and laughed.

Sam watched, his lemonade sweating a ring onto the plywood counter and getting more watered-down every moment, as Dean pointed to prize after prize, only to be denied by the boy, his curls bouncing as he shook his head decisively time each time. Sam felt a smile he couldn't stop curling his own lips—Dean was offering the kid the top-level prizes, that you were only supposed to get if you sank all three balls, or only if you landed in the dead-center bowl with the blue water—but the little champion just kept pointing to the glass bowls on the table, unfazed by giant gorillas or three-foot bananas.

"Well?" Dean asked the pretty mom with a shrug, "I guess that's that, huh?" She sighed and shook her head with a laugh.

"I guess so," she answered, and motioned for Dean to go ahead. Sam watched, and a few moments later Dean handed over a plastic bag with a spotted goldfish swimming in circles inside.

"Whatcha gonna call him, sport?" Dean said, ruffling the boy's curls as he stepped out from inside the game stand and toward Sam.

"Fishy!" he answered with a huge, baby-toothed grin.

"Excellent choice, my man!" The boy's mom finished packing her son into a stroller as Dean talked about Fishy's virtues with his new owner… _"yes, you're right, he's very shiny, best swimmer I have"…_ surreptitiously slipping one of the spare fishbowls and a baggie with a packet of fish food into one of the stroller's many pouches. It looked like there were a dozen of them; Sam hoped the mom would actually find it later. But she must have noticed—though Sam didn't know how she could have because her back was turned when Dean had done it—eyeing the pocket and then quirking a brow at Dean, who blushed and almost looked put out that he hadn't been as smooth as he thought. 

This time, anyway.

She laid a hand on Dean's cheek as they turned to leave, and Dean started, like when someone touches you and static electricity makes the jump. She whispered something to him that Sam didn't catch, and Dean nodded a crooked smile, looking a little stunned, eyes following her as mother, child, and Fishy wheeled away.

"What'd she say to you?" Sam asked, elbowing his brother and handing Dean the diluted lemon shake-up. "Did she know you switched the balls?"

"Huh?" Dean said, grabbing the drink as he snapped back into the present and taking an exaggerated and obscenely dramatic suck at the straw. "Nothing I haven't heard before, Sammy, from any number of grateful ladies. Corn-dogs sound good, yeah?"

Sam rolled his eyes and did what he'd done a million times before…he followed his big brother.

[ ](http://girlguidejones.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2152/13021)

The trailer door banged shut behind them as Dean headed to the tiny fridge, which was the coolest place inside their temporary base. The ancient mobile home looked like nothing more than a beat-up version of one of those retro-toasters they sold at the fancy kitchen stores. The comparison was apt; it was almost as hot as one inside.

It sat in the shadow of the old Ferris wheel, which had seen its better days. Dean bitched about the non-stop carnival music soundtrack, but Sam sort of liked how the lights refracted inside the trailer at night. Dean, on the other hand, bitched about the lights, too.

"Feels like I'm sleeping under a disco-ball," he'd groused the first night, until Sam grinned and showed him a different way to "do the Hustle".

There was a tiny, anemic air conditioner that semi-cooled a three-foot radius. They got a three-hour break in the hottest part of the day, so they put the air conditioner in the window over the bed and kept the accordion door to the sleeping area pulled shut, which almost made it cool enough to nap.

In deference to Sam ending up as a fry cook and lemon squeezer, Dean had stopped fighting him for dibs on the shower, and Sam made a beeline for it. He showered two or three times a day, unable to sleep covered in grease and lemon, even if it didn't seem to bother Dean. They'd had a particularly memorable night the first week, when Dean had backed him onto the bed with stolen salt packets and a bottle of tequila and licked and sucked the bits of lemon pulp from his skin.

"You sleepy?" Dean asked, when Sam emerged from the tiny shower, feeling like he'd escaped a coffin. His shoulders touched both sides when he was inside and he could barely move. His strategy was to just lather up as much as he possibly could and let the suds sluice down his body, hoping it hit all the important parts.

Dean was on his belly, in just a t-shirt and briefs, scribbling on the headboard with a purple Sharpie, adding another Devil's Trap to the menagerie of art already there. It was really the best feature about the housing arrangements…that the entire interior was covered with graffiti from hundreds of former itinerant carnies like themselves. 

A lot of it was graphically obscene, or out-dated pop culture references from before Sam was born. But amongst that were layers and layers of actual artwork, including a truly inspired reproduction of A Starry Night done entirely in puffy-paints. They could add all the Latin and protection symbols they wanted and no one would even blink. Whoever ended up sleeping in this trailer after they left was going to be the safest carnie in North America.

"Little bit," Sam answered, stretching out beside Dean, watching him work with his tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth in concentration, like Michael Jordan on a fast break. "You know that fish is gonna die in a couple weeks, right?" Sam asked softly, and Dean turned to face him, smiling a little.

"I remember," Dean said, ruffling Sam's wet hair. "I'm the one who had to cuddle you for days while you cried, Sammy." Sam rolled his eyes.

"It's your fault," he retorted. "You're the one who won it for me."

"You're the one who begged for it," Dean replied, repetitively capping and uncapping the marker, the sound of the lid clicking over and over almost drowned by the noisy air conditioner. "Do you s'pose he's got a big brother to make him feel better?"

"Probably not as lucky as me," Sam smiled, leaning over to press a kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth. Dean squirmed, hiding a grin with an eyeroll of his own and turning on his side, back to Sam.

"Well, duh." Dean said as Sam spooned up behind him, slipping an arm over Dean's waist.

"I know you rigged the game, Dean," Sam smiled against Dean's neck. The symbols on the wall Sam was facing blurred and coalesced as Sam blinked sleepily…black ink forming peace signs, layered over silver lightning bolts that pierced coppery red skulls.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean answered, but he scooted backwards into Sam just a tiny bit when he said it. 

Sam did.

[ ](http://girlguidejones.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2152/14022)

"Hey pretty boy, you think I don't know when I'm being played?"

The words sent a chill down Sam's spine as he approached the darkened game booth. The carnival was closed, the last patrons trickling out the gates with tacky prizes and bags of cotton candy. Except for the few carnies working the exits and the parking lot, just about everyone but he and Dean were already in their trailers, drinking, eating, or fucking. 

Dean's pissed off a thousand people over the years, and all of them sounded just like that right before they took a swing—or worse.

"Considering your girl is over there hanging on some other dude's arm that _did_ win her a giant teddy bear, I'm gonna go with _no_ ," Dean snarked. Sam broke into a run; he could hear the shuffle of other feet on the hard-packed dirt. Dean was outnumbered.

"Show us the other balls, you cheating prick!"

"That's real flattering, junior, but I don't roll that way," Dean grinned, head inclining just a fraction as he saw Sam rounding the corner. There were four of them, and one of Dean, and now, Sam. 

Seemed about even, Sam thought grimly. Until he saw a silver glint in the accuser's hand.

"Dean, look out!" Sam shouted, but his brother had already seen the knife beginning to sweep forward, was already mid-air, body twisted oddly in a backwards leap like one of the contortionists who worked three stalls over. Dean immediately jumped forward again as soon as he landed, getting into his attacker's space and following behind the cross-body slash the guy had attempted, disarming him before the first knife-thrust had even stopped its forward momentum.

Sam grabbed a nearby pipe, meant to serve as a makeshift deadbolt, but Dean's fan club had jumped him as he was closing up and luckily he hadn't had time to lock it in place. One swing at the Achilles of the goon closest to Sam put him on the ground indefinitely, and it was suddenly three on two. 

If the other two bullies had weapons they had yet to show them, but judging by the suddenly-wary looks on their faces as Sam joined the fray he was betting on no. Their buddy was making satisfyingly unnerving moans of pain in the dust, clutching at his ankles, and the two unarmed guys started to back away as Sam closed in.

"Look man, we don't want no trouble," one started, hands raised in supplication. His buddy was already backing away, comically cross-eyed with the effort of keeping one eye on Dean and the other on Sam, neither of whom would stop moving and make it easy for him.

"Shut up, Billy," knife-guy growled, trying to watch a circling Dean and simultaneously check to see if his back-up was going to bolt.

"And yet somehow," Sam said, swinging the pipe menacingly, "you found it anyway." Sam felt the adrenaline singing through his veins. These fuckers thought they could mess with Dean? They had no fucking idea who they were messing with. Sam swung the pipe again, the air whistling as the end of the pipe passed inches from one of the sidekicks' groins. "Why don't you all just get on your knees—before I make them bend the opposite way—and toss us your wallets?"

Dean brandished knife-guy's own weapon at him, and herded him to the dirt next to the other two, gathering up the wallets and checking the I.D.'s. Ruptured-tendon guy was no longer a danger to anyone, rocking in the dust with tear-tracks streaking his face.

"Didja see that little girl, the happiest kid in the world who won the giant pony at the end while you were staking me out?" Dean asked, as he threw their wallets back at them. They didn't answer so much as grunt an acknowledgement, too afraid to defy Dean completely by ignoring him.

"That's the new councilman's kid," Dean continued, circling them in one direction as Sam moved to counter. "I see your faces here again, he'll have the sheriff paying visits to Woodland Avenue and High Street and County Road Nine and whatever-the-hell punk-ass trailer court is on Appian Way. You get me, shitholes?" Sam swung the pipe one more time to emphasize Dean's point, shattering an empty crate near where knife-guy was kneeling, hands up, and showering him with splinters. "Now git," Dean drawled, and they did, the two cronies dragging their crippled partner between them as knife-guy led the way.

"Damn, Xena," Dean whistled low. "You did a number on that guy." Sam flushed as Dean approached.

"I just followed protocol," Sam answered, swallowing. For some reason, his pulse hadn't slowed any now that the danger had gone. "When outnumbered, take immediate and decisive action to eliminate at least one opponent—" 

"—and make it scary as hell so the other ones piss their pants." Dean finished for him, moving way, way, _way_ into Sam's personal space. Dean reached for the pipe, his fingers closing over it and brushing Sam's. That must be what holding a superconductor feels like. "I remember the drills, dude," Dean continued. "But…"

Dean was right up against Sam now, body heat of his own making Sam's ratchet up even more.

"But what?" Dean's face was so close to Sam's by now that all of his freckles were blurred. Sam breathed in the sour smell of spent adrenalin, his or Dean's, he didn't know, but instead of crashing down from the high it only made him want more.

"You're really hot as fuck when you're butch," Dean grinned, and licked a stripe up Sam's collarbone to the knob under his ear. 

Sam groaned and tugged the shack door open behind him, yanking Dean in by the nape of his neck. Dean was completely on board, kicking the door shut behind him as he palmed Sam's painfully sudden bulge.  
Dean let go long enough to grab the roll of canvas standing up in the corner and toss it down, unrolling a few feet of it. 

Sam didn't make it easy; his hands were busy at Dean's belt and then he sort of lost the plot a little when he got Dean's zipper down. He meant to shove Dean's shorts and jeans down all at once, boots be damned, but as soon as he closed his fingers around Dean's cock, Dean whimpered and Sam couldn't bear to let go.

He jacked Dean standing up, his and Dean's heads bowed together, temples touching, watching Sam's hand moving obscenely inside Dean's shorts in the low light filtering through from the carnival park. 

"You like it?" Sam asked, just a whisper against Dean's cheekbone.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasped, gaze riveted on the rhythmic movement inside his briefs. "Fuck yeah…so dirty…"

Sam kissed them both breathless before he finally let go long enough to shove first Dean's jeans, then his boxer briefs down around Dean's knees. Dean was suddenly clumsy, all fighting grace gone now in the face of a different kind of fight-or-flight arousal. He kept following Sam's hands a half-second behind in attempts to help.

"Sammy…Sammy, Jeezus…" Dean gasped. That was the most Sam could make out, and, hot as it was, it was the other noises Dean was making that were driving Sam crazy…short, breathy gasps and a little, almost-whine that caught in Dean's throat. Sam turned Dean, dropped to his knees on the tarp and began tongue-fucking Dean, reaching around him to keep one hand on Dean's cock, while the other squeezed Dean's ass, manhandling him open. 

Sam flattened his tongue and licked Dean from balls to hole in one, long, relentless swipe, and suddenly he had a faceful of Dean, who was bent over nearly double somehow without falling. Sam looked up to see Dean leaning over a storage bin, hands that were no-doubt white-knuckled on the edge, if only Sam could see them in the low light. Dean protested the sudden lack of tongue by once more thrusting his ass out toward Sam's face.

"Dammit, Sam, don't be a fucking tease, man." It was dangerously close to a whine.

"Need you, Dean," Sam answered, biting then laving first one ass-cheek then the other. He ignored Dean's pucker except to blow teasingly on it.

"Dammit. Pants, gimme a sec…" Dean bent over to his bootlaces but Sam finally let go of Dean's cock, only to slap Dean's hand away.

"No. Like you like this." Sam could feel his own cock jerk and leak against his belly. It was dirtier, like Dean had said, when your clothes were still half-on. And after the violence earlier, dirty and gritty and nasty were exactly what Sam wanted. And Dean?

Dean wanted whatever Sam wanted. Sam knew it, and had a flash of guilt about it that he buried quickly. Dean had been wired that way before Sam was old enough to understand it; there was nothing to be done about it now but make it work for both of them.

"Yeah…fuck. Okay." Dean croaked, leaning forward onto the bin again, but this time only on one forearm. The other hand reached back to the opposite side versus where Sam's hand rested on his ass, and pulled himself the rest of the way open. Open for Sam. Sam felt a blurt of wet on his other hand as Dean's cock responded to his own actions.

It was the hottest fucking thing Sam had ever seen.

He dove in immediately, spearing Dean's hole as hard as he could with his tongue, driving it deep. Dean groaned, and Sam could feel the curves of Dean's ass trembling against his face as he spat against Dean's hole and pushed in again, and again. He scraped at Dean's opening with his teeth and Dean jerked against him but Sam was already piercing him with his tongue again before Dean could protest or complain or beg for more. Sam didn't know which he would have done if he'd had the chance, and he doubted Dean did either. 

Dean's cries got more and more desperate and the hand jacking Dean got more and more wet, until finally Sam felt Dean's nails dig into the hand on his cock, prying Sam off.

"Sam, god you…you gotta fuck me now, okay?" Dean knelt, backing away from the bin and further onto the tarp. He was shucking his own shirt over his head, and Sam rose up behind him to bite his favorite freckle pattern, the one on Dean's left shoulder blade. Sam couldn't see it in the low light, but it didn't stop him from knowing exactly where it was. He hummed against Dean's skin. "You hear me, Sam? Now, okay?" Dean half-turned then frowned, frustrated and impatient all at once.

"Fuck, Sammy, you still got all your clothes on. C'mon, man," he pleaded, one of his hands resting on Sam's belt buckle, the other sweeping up under the hem of Sam's shirt. Sam pushed them both away, grasping Dean's hips and turning Dean back-to-chest in front of Sam. 

"Don't care," Sam breathed into the shell of Dean's ear as he ran his hands down Dean's chest, biting down hard on Dean's earlobe for emphasis. Sam bucked forward—hard—into Dean's ass, still fully clothed, throwing Dean onto his hands as he caught himself.

"Sammy—" he asked, but Sam didn't answer, just laid a hand at the base of Dean's spine, resting it there until Dean quieted. 

The sound of Sam's belt buckle clinking was obscenely loud in the dark.

"Gotta fuck you now, Dean," Sam rasped, unzipping himself. "Need you. Need you Dean—" 

"Godfuckyes," Dean answered, shivering and with his back already arching, humping back toward Sam.

As Dean shook in front of him, Sam spat once more directly onto Dean's hole, lined up, and shoved his way in, not stopping until he was fully seated. 

Dean was ready, mostly. Sam had licked and sucked and tongued him open, but Sam felt Dean stiffen and clutch at Sam's thigh, not asking, never asking, but letting Sam know what it would be if he didn't give it a minute. Sam pulled Dean up, stilling his thrusts and biting into the thin flesh covering Dean's shoulder blade as he fought his own instinct to _push_.

He was tempted. God help him, he was tempted. It was already dirty and perverse; Sam hadn't even taken the time to get his own pants off. If he pushed Dean too far too fast it was just another facet of what they were already doing. Dean would take it; he'd take it willingly, hell, Dean would get off on it. And Dean would heal. Sam might still be broken, but this? Having this again—especially after the rawhead almost took Dean from him forever—was as close as Sam could get to healing himself right now.

He moved his hips in tiny twitches, and it took every shred of control he had to keep it to that. Sam had one arm curled up around Dean's chest, palm resting over the heart that had been stolen from someone else but somehow still beat as strongly for Sam as the one Dean'd been born with. His other hand gripped Dean at the opposite hip; Sam could swear he felt the big artery pulsing under his fingers.

His strokes lengthened as he felt the stiffness slowly ease from Dean's spine, and soon Dean was arching back against him, arm curled up and back around Sam's head, fingers digging into Sam's hair.

"Good now Sammy," Dean groaned. "So good, c'mon…" 

Sam stroked long and pushed deep, steady pace rocking them both forward and back. Having Dean again…he could never be thankful for losing Jess, but—Reaper or no Reaper—he'd be thankful for having Dean again until the end of days. 

He sent up a prayer for the soul of Sue-Ann LeGrange.

"Dean?" Sam's hips were stuttering now, he was losing it, the idea of Dean gone forever had Sam racing to his finish, as if he might not get there in time. "Dean, I need…"

"Shhh…I know Sammy, I know," Dean soothed, petting Sam's thigh and grunting under the force of Sam's thrusts. "I'm here. I gotcha. I'm here…take what you need Sammy…"

And suddenly Sam was coming, the dirty reality of their still-clothed fuck and the desperate need Sam had to get so deep inside of Dean he could never be separated drove Sam right over the edge.

"Dean!" Sam gasped, pulsing and emptying as Dean moaned in front of him. Sam could feel the rhythmic jerk of Dean's right arm and felt guilty that Dean had to jerk himself off instead of Sam doing it for him. But there was no way Sam could bring himself to release his hold on Deans hip—or move the hand over Dean's heart.

"Sam," Dean grunted. "Oh, _fuccckkk_ Sammy!" and suddenly Dean stiffened again, clenching around Sam's cock as he came and then slowly slumped forward and down onto the tarp. Sam slipped free and followed, dropping kisses across Dean's shoulders as he curled beside him.

"Hey, by the way," Sam asked, lifting up to one elbow and looking down at Dean, who'd rolled to his back and just hmmmm'd in fucked-out response. They'd both zoned out for a moment, adrenaline driven out by endorphins. Apparently at some point Dean had eventually gotten his way, and Sam was now naked too. "How did you know that was the councilman's kid?" 

"Hmmm?" Dean repeated vaguely, nosing at Sam's nipple that was now at just the right angle for it. Sam's balls ached, spent and weary, but his cock twitched anyway. Apparently they had divergent interests. Sam repeated the question, but made sure he didn't do anything that would make Dean stop thinking about…well, whatever he was thinking about.

"Oh, that," Dean dismissed the question. Sam felt Dean's hand lift momentarily from where it was spread on Sam's hip, waving the question away, apparently. It was too dark to tell. It returned quickly, Dean's thumb tracing the cuts of Sam's abs as his lips closed around Sam's nipple. He gave it a quick, deep suckle that had Sam ready to go again so fast it hurt.

"I didn't," Dean said nonchalantly, and Sam sputtered in amazement. There was bluffing, and then there was…whatever the cracked-out shit Dean always pulled. "I just figured those dumbasses were too stupid to have ever voted," Dean shrugged. Sam stared at him, a long, slow smile spreading across his face as he deliberately palmed Dean's head back closer to his nipple again. Dean took the hint, gave it another long, toe-curling suck and let go with an obscene pop. Sam grunted.

"What?" Dean grinned, cocky as ever.

"Nothing," Sam grinned back, shimmying down the canvas until he had his head between Dean's legs. "You're just hot as fuck when you're smart."

[ ](http://girlguidejones.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2152/13156)

"Sure do hate to lose you boys," the carnival boss said, "hard to find people your age that'll work like you'ns did."

Sam hated to go, too, even though they'd found out the case was a bust, and a crappy maintenance man and an over-the-hill Ferris wheel were the only things haunting this carnival. He wouldn't miss the grease or the constant sting of lemon juice in the cuts on his fingers, but the boss and the other carnies had been good to them. With still no word from Dad, they'd stayed on even once they knew there was nothing in the carnival in need of salting or burning. It gave them a chance to make some cash, and Dean a chance to get his head on straight. As for Sam, having Dean to himself for almost four weeks—with no case to bring danger with it—had done wonders for Sam's nerves. And his sleep quota.

That is, until Dean had gotten a call on a cell phone that Sam hadn't ever even seen buried in the glove compartment.

"Yeah," Dean answered, exchanging a handshake with Hendershot. "Hate to go, but..."

"Family is family," Hendershot said, and Dean nodded, steadfastly refusing to look at Sam. They pulled out of the gates; two cheap white envelopes stuffed with singles (their tips) and twenties (their pay) rested on the seat between them, along with a greasy bag of corndogs and mustard packets.

"Family?" Sam stared a hole in Dean's right temple when he didn't answer. "How exactly is this girl you barely know _family_?" he fumed. "You told her about the family business after a few weeks and I loved Jess for _years_ and never said a _word_ —" 

"Cassie," Dean said quietly.

"What?" Sam shot back.

"Her name is Cassie," Dean repeated a little more loudly, and Sam stared, light dawning.

"Dean?" he ventured. "Did you...I mean...do you lo—" 

"Let's just get a move on, okay Sam?" Dean interrupted. "More driving and less yapping, you get me?" 

Dean hit the gas and the volume at the same time, and the Impala's wheels hummed louder against the blacktop.

Sam slumped in the seat and let the argument slip away, staring into the kaleidoscope of lights in his side mirror as the Ferris wheel blinked goodbye.


End file.
